"I believe that takes care of everything. I've given you your tickets, and your suite at the Hôtel Meurice will be ready when you arrive in Paris. It is not so large an establishment as the Continental, but I think you will find it much more elegant. Monsieur Beaulieu, the manager, will meet you at the station himself." Four days had passed, and I found myself once again in the library with Colin Hargreaves, who had responded immediately to my plea for help.

"I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Hargreaves," I said, smiling at him.

"I confess your note surprised me. I didn't think you would want to leave London so soon." He had a way of maintaining eye contact during conversation that was almost unnerving.

"Neither did I." I watched him brush his hand through his tousled hair. "To be quite honest, I decided to go purely out of desire to avoid social obligations." He laughed. "Please don't misunderstand," I continued. "There are many excellent diversions to be found in society, but at the moment I find myself unequal to-I'm not ready to-" I stammered on in this incoherent manner for several moments, until his laughter became too loud to ignore.

"Do I amuse you, Mr. Hargreaves?" I asked severely.

"Yes, you do, Lady Ashton. You are trying too hard to be polite. Why would you want to spend the rest of the year attending the somber, boring dinners and teas acceptable for a widow newly out of deep mourning? I believe I share your view of society."

"Of course one couldn't do without it," I said.

"No, I suppose not. It does provide us with a set of arcane rules of behavior and, as Trollope so aptly called it, a marriage market. And I will admit to finding great pleasure in a ball, so I imagine we shouldn't abolish the entire system."

"Quite right. What would you men do if there were no ladies to watch riding on Rotten Row in the morning?"

"I am certain it could lead to nothing good," he replied, leaning toward me conspiratorially. I offered him a drink, which he accepted gratefully, crossing the room to pour it himself rather than making me get up from my comfortable seat.

"I think that I shall have to give you an open invitation to drink my whiskey whenever you are here; I've no idea what I shall do with it otherwise."

"You could drink it yourself."

"An excellent suggestion certain to terrorize my mother," I said enthusiastically. "Ladies should drink only sherry, you know, and I've always detested it." He smiled and handed me a glass. I took one sip and cringed. "Foul stuff."

He laughed. "I think you shall have to rely on other methods of tormenting her."

"Perhaps I shall try port next. Davis tells me there are cases and cases of it in the cellar." I twirled the undrinkable golden liquid in my glass, and we sat quietly for a moment. "I imagine you and Philip spent many pleasant evenings in this room."

"We did, Lady Ashton." He looked at me rather pointedly. "It was in this room after a ball at Lady Elliott's that he first told me he had fallen in love with you. He watched you avoid the attentions of a baron, two viscounts, and an extremely elderly duke."

"Philip wanted to succeed where other viscounts had failed."

"Hardly. He told me he had seen a lady spurn several very eligible men and that this clearly indicated she wanted something more than a title and a comfortable allowance."

I didn't know what to say; I had never considered the matter. A good marriage was my parents' goal for me, though not one in which I had any particular interest. As I have already said, I felt no inclination toward the institution other than as a means of escaping my mother's house, but could hardly admit this to Mr. Hargreaves.

"A young lady rarely knows what she wants. At any rate, her wishes are largely irrelevant, so it is best that she not form too many opinions about any of her suitors," I quipped, trying to sound lighthearted.

"But you obviously formed an opinion of Ashton. You accepted his proposal immediately and after very little courtship."

My heart sank in my chest. "Yes, I did." There was nothing else to say, so I sat in silence for some time.

"I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Ashton. This conversation is inappropriate on every level. I should not force you to think about painful topics. Please do not imagine that your husband ever spoke of you in an indelicate fashion. It is only natural that he would confide in his best friend."

"Of course. You are forgiven, Mr. Hargreaves. How could I find offense in anything you say after you have so kindly arranged my trip to Paris?" I refilled his glass and changed the subject. "Will you leave London for the country soon?"

"Probably not. Like you, I prefer to travel abroad."

"Then perhaps our paths will cross again in Paris," I suggested.

"I would enjoy that very much."

We conversed for another quarter of an hour, until it was time to dress for dinner, at which point he rose to leave.

"Mr. Hargreaves," I said as he headed toward the door. He turned to me. "I think we may dispense with formality. Please call me by my Christian name."

"Thank you, Emily. I'm honored." His smile was excessively charming and brightened his dark eyes most attractively.


5 APRIL 1887

BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON


Much though I love the African plains, it is impossible to deny the superior comfort of a house in London.

Have taken a desk in the Reading Room at the British Library in what I hope will not end up a vain effort at making progress on my research during the summer. My friends are less likely to disturb me there than at home, and close proximity to the museum's artifacts is apt to bring inspiration. As I seem to spend more and more time in town every year, I am considering a significant expansion of my collection of antiquities-could then have a gallery here as well as at Ashton Hall.

4

Within another week I found myself comfortably settled into a sumptuous suite of rooms overlooking the Jardin des Tuileries in the Hôtel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. I saw Ivy soon after my arrival and was delighted to find my friend enjoying her honeymoon. Although she and Robert were pleased to see me, I couldn't help but notice that they seemed concerned that I had no immediate plan to return to England. I confess that after they left for Switzerland, I felt quite lonely, almost regretting my decision not to bring a companion with me. Walks in the Tuileries filled my mornings, and I took tea with other English guests at the hotel, and before many days had passed, I grew accustomed to the rhythm of the city.

Being alone in Paris was quite different from being alone in the house in London, although I suppose this was largely due to my own state of mind. Having entered the period of half mourning, I could now go about as I pleased, and people in Paris seemed less concerned with the demise of my husband than those in London did. In London I felt self-conscious when I began leaving my house after my husband's death, as if everyone who saw me knew that I hadn't really mourned him. In Paris I knew that no one would give me a second thought. I rarely encountered anyone who knew Philip personally, and therefore I avoided those uncomfortable encounters with people who wanted to talk about him. My social standing did cause me to be invited to a number of soirées, dinners, and parties, but I felt no need to attend any that did not interest me, confident that my mother would not appear from behind a bush in the Tuileries to scold me for refusing an invitation.

During this time I finished reading Chapman's Iliad as well as The Age of Fable. Rather than turning my attention to the Odyssey, as I had originally planned, I delved into Pope's translation of the Iliad. The Meurice was only a short walk from the Louvre, and I spent many afternoons there mesmerized by the exquisite collection of antiquities. After touring all the Salles Grecques, I returned to my sketchbook, starting with a fragment of the Parthenon friezes that depicted an Athenian girl and two priests. I could not reproduce the scene as accurately as I would have liked, and wished that I had paid better attention to the drawing master who had taught me at my mother's house. But, my lack of skill notwithstanding, what better way to spend an afternoon than in a noble attempt to capture some of the Parthenon's exquisite beauty? Every moment that I spent reading, sketching, or wandering through the museum brought me closer to the man I had married, a feeling I welcomed, although I was not quite sure why.

"There is a man waiting to see you, Lady Ashton," my maid informed me as I returned to my rooms following one such excursion to the Louvre. "A Frenchman, madam," she said, wrinkling her nose to show dissatisfaction. "I only agreed to let him wait because he said he was delivering something of Lord Ashton's."

"Meg, we are bound to see Frenchmen occasionally, given that we are in their country. Bring him to me. I'd like to see what he has." A few moments later, she announced a Monsieur Renoir, who carried under his arm a good-size flat package wrapped in brown paper.

"Madame, I was devastated to learn of your husband's death. It was a tragedy indeed." His dark eyes burned intensely. "It pleases me more than you know to be able to deliver to you this picture." He placed the package on a table away from the window. I opened it immediately and was shocked to see my own face.

I couldn't speak. I had heard of the work of the impressionists but had seen few of their paintings. Renoir had captured the essence of my face while bringing to it a beauty I had never seen, colors and light dancing across the canvas.